Working on the Edges

Chapter Fourteen

Sherlock felt a little like an idiot, waiting around by the athletes' entrance to the hockey venue. And then John came out, dressed for the game but not yet in skates, and Sherlock's brain may have gone a tiny bit offline at the sight of that.

John said, "Hey," leaned forward to kiss him, and then drew back without meeting his lips. "Really?"

"Really what?" asked Sherlock, confused by the question.

"The hockey uniform does it for you?"

Sherlock blinked, alarmed he was that transparent. "Certainly not," he sniffed. "What would make you think that?"

John grinned at him. "You're an open book, you idiot." He kissed him then, quick but fond. "When the Olympics are over, I'll let you have your way with me in a locker room one night, how's that?"

"Absolutely unnecessary," said Sherlock, whilst simultaneously thinking it was the best idea he'd ever heard.

John continued to look amused. "Shut up, you love the idea. Did you bring your medal?"

Sherlock went to hand it across to him.

"No, no, no, you're coming with it."

"No, you can just bring it in and—"

"Don't be silly, it's your good luck, having me wave it over everyone wouldn't mean anything. And, anyway, everyone wants to meet you."

Which was what he'd been afraid of. "That's not—"

"Stop it, they'll love you."

John was not a stupid person, so Sherlock didn't know why he insisted on thinking stupid things. "That's probably not true—"

"It is true. I know them and I know you and it'll be fine." John settled his hand in Sherlock's and tugged him along, into the venue.

Sherlock felt slightly ill at the prospect of all this. He despised small talk and so had never even tried to develop the knack for it. What could he possibly say to all of John's teammates? Make sure you watch that John doesn't take a puck to his head? That was basically the only thing Sherlock wanted to say to them.

"Here he is!" John announced, pulling him into the locker room.

There were effusive greetings, an impossible number of people wanting to shake his hand, as if they'd been waiting for this meeting. Congratulations, they said, over and over, and Sherlock couldn't think of what he was supposed to be saying in answer to that, because John next to him looked pleased as punch, as if he was actually proud of the ability to have produced Sherlock Holmes in this locker room. Sherlock tried to think of the last time someone other than his parents had looked proud of his existence, and utterly failed.

Sherlock had still been holding his gold medal in one hand, and in response to requests to see it, he held it out. No one tried to take it from him, but they ooh'd and aah'd and asked him if it was everything he had expected it to be.

Sherlock looked at the gold medal in his hand and said, honestly, "I don't know, really; it pales next to John."

Which provoked a round of teasing toward John, and John flushed pink but didn't look displeased, and Sherlock thought it possible the teasing was good-natured and hoped that that hadn't been the wrong thing to say.

"So go on," said one of the hockey players to him, eventually—father of three, divorced, allergic to penicillin, overly fond of nachos.

Everyone looked at him expectantly.

Sherlock wondered what social cue he'd missed this time. He glanced furtively at John and said, "Go on with what?"

"Spreading your gold-medal mojo," shouted someone from the back of the crowd, and there was a chorus of affirmation.